


All kinds of hot

by tawg



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: AU, Community: blindfold_spn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawg/pseuds/tawg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha is pyrokinetic. Jared digs it. Written for blindfold-spn, round 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All kinds of hot

Misha looks like a wild thing, something not exactly human, something dangerous and uncontained.

That’s exactly what he is.

Misha is pale skin and black palms, charcoal hair and eyelashes like cobwebs of soot. His eyes are blue, when he’s resting, when he can be bothered to blend in. But then something will catch his attention, his lips will part (always cracked and dry; Jared is sure that every inch of Misha’s skin is dry, not a hint of moisture left), and his pupils will dilate, deep dark pools of black smoke, rimmed by irises that sparkle the orange-red of flames and embers.

Misha’s hands light up, flames curling up around the bones of his wrists, long fingers with the tips capped blue, sometimes white. The heart of the flame.

Jared would give anything to touch him. To fist his hand in that messy dark hair, to yank Misha against him and press his palms against the hot skin of Misha’s stomach, to feel the sweat between his fingers sizzle and evaporate. Misha’s eyes would narrow, and his mouth would be so warm that it would feel like too much, and when Misha let out a huff of breath as Jared hauled him close, it would smell like smoke.

But Jared can’t touch him. Jared can’t touch anyone. Even gloves won’t work, not on Misha who can turn leather to ash with a heated look, who rolled his hips up against Jared’s touch, his eyelids fluttering closed and his jeans starting to smoke, and Jared pressing through the pain of the smouldering leather in the hopes of getting a feel, getting something. His palm had been all blisters, but it had been worth it. Worth it for that lingering press of flesh against flesh, straining against the barriers between them, and that look on Misha’s face. Aroused, intrigued, determined.

When Misha tells Jared to sit, he does. When Misha tells Jared to stay still, he does. When Misha holds a hand out to Jared’s face, Jared lets his eyelids flutter closed, shuts down the sense of sight so he can feel the heat from Misha’s palm radiating out and warming his face, so he can hear the sounds of fabric against fabric as Misha shifts, never able to stay completely still, so he can inhale the scent of Misha, the cleanliness of him that comes from all of the dirt being burned away. Every day Misha is purified in a blaze, everything unnecessary and unclean incinerated.

Misha moves his hand, trails his fingers along the curve of Jared’s cheek, the line of his jaw. Maintaining maybe a quarter of an inch between the pads of his fingers and the skin he is gently warming. The side of his hand draws a hot line down Jared’s neck, and a sharp press of heat, the nail of his thumb and the small flame there, drags across Jared’s collar bone until it reaches the neck of the worn tee he is wearing. The material gets hot, hotter, Jared smells smoke and his breathing stutters, but his skin doesn’t blister or burn. He opens his eyes, and Misha is frowning at the shirt, control and concentration and an eerie devotion to slowly and carefully reducing it to ash, blowing it away with a breath of hot air, revealing sections of tanned, wanting skin.

Jared licks his lips. “I would have taken it off,” he says. “If you’d asked me.”

Misha’s eyes flick up to Jared’s face, the dark red of a smouldering campfire. His mouth twitches, like he is trying to suppress a smile, but he never can, and his glee shines through when he asks, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Jared toes his shoes off, because shirts and jeans? He has a room full of them. But he’s not going to let Misha reduce his boots to ashes. He slides his hips forwards on the chair, feeling the flames that lick playfully over Misha’s palms skitter over his skin. He winces, but he doesn’t burn. Misha runs his fingers down over Jared’s thighs, and little trails of black are left behind, the heat getting caught in the old denim and sinking into Jared’s skin. Misha runs his fingers over that same path, and the heat eats through the jeans, fire catching and crumbling the material. Jared stares down at his legs, at the slices of his thighs now visible. At the erection pressing firmly against his zipper.

Misha runs the back of his hand over the fly of Jared’s jeans. Flames lick at the denim, seemingly happy to rest at the rise of his crotch, a warmth as mild as sitting in the sun gradually ebbing through the denim, through the cotton of Jared’s boxers. And then Misha crouches down between Jared’s thighs, hands clasped between his own knees and his shoulders pulled in tight. Jared spreads his thighs further apart, making sure he has no risk of touching the other man, but when Misha glances up at Jared with a smirk he knows it looks like a desperate, begging movement. What the hell; Jared is desperate. He would beg. He’s sure the only reason Misha hasn’t made him is because Misha simply doesn’t have the attention span for that kind of play.

Then Misha’s eyes are back on Jared’s cock, on the flames outlining the press of his desperation. Misha tilts his head to one side, and the flames jump, start burning through the material under Misha’s direction. The front of his jeans are reduced to ash, and Misha blows it away with another of those furnace-hot breaths, and Jared can’t help it when his head falls back and he lets out a shuddery breath. The only stimulation his cock has ever known is his own left hand, and the dry warmth of Misha’s breath, the way it makes his skin prickle in warning and curls around his flesh is driving him mad.

Misha makes a thoughtful humming sound that makes the hairs on the back of Jared’s neck prickle, because when Misha puts a lot of thought into something, buildings explode and forests are razed to the ground. But then Jared feels dry heat engulf his cock. Too hot, but not burning. A hard insubstantial warmth that sets off all the heat sensors in his skin, one that’s interspersed with cooler areas where the flames are completely absent. Misha, always able to amuse himself with the patters he can twist a flame into, corkscrewing fire around Jared’s cock, pressing heat into him that is nothing as comforting as the pressure of fingers but oh so glorious because it’s someone else, something external and determined, something touching. Something touching him and that alone is so good it brings tears to his eyes.

Jared wraps his thumb and forefinger around the base of his cock, holding it out so Misha can explore every single part of it with ease, running the thinnest of flames over the weeping head of his cock, making the precome beading there spit and sizzle, gentle orange flames coiling through his pubic hair, burning a little, a sharp smell in the air. Along the length of his cock, too hot and still not enough.

His body and brain are aware that this is irresponsible and dangerous (and Misha in a nutshell) but both too wrapped up and blissed out to care. Jared squeezes tightly at the base of his dick, both desperate for the hard press of skin on skin and needing to draw this out longer, draw it out despite Misha licking tickling flames up his chest, laying small, pinprick burns around his nipples and making his hips buck. Sliding a fingertip of hot flame down the side of his ribs, curving across his stomach and tracing the line of muscle down over one hip. A mild burn, one that aches and hurts and feels so incredibly good, leaves Jared moaning and squirming, desperate for more.

Misha looks up at Jared, catches his eye with an intense, unreadable look, and then carefully holds up one hand, rippling with orange flames. He lowers it carefully, hovering it over Jared’s thigh, letting him feel the heat catch in and sink through the denim, letting it singe the hairs of his thigh where the material has already burned through. And then, with a curious look, he presses his hand hard against the muscle of Jared’s thigh. Everything in Jared coils to yell ‘no’, but there is heat that is too much, that is pain and pressure and fingertips digging into his thigh, and flames on his cock that are too hot, too much, and then his own hand is tight and confused, spasming at the base of his dick and he is coming, coming, and he can hear the sizzle of his come fighting a futile battle with Misha’s flames, and hear his own shout of release, and then he slumps back in that uncomfortable chair, wrung out and sore.

It takes a long time for Jared to collect himself, slowly pulling his body upright, looking down at the mess Misha has made of his clothes, the mess of burns he’s left on Jared’s body. Most would be mild. Stiff and painful for a few days, then fading to silver scars that would in turn heal away to nothing. But there was one that was already blistering, one angry stupid impulsive burn on his thigh. A handprint. Misha’s handprint.

“That was really stupid,” Jared says as he stares at the red shape of fingers and palm.

Misha, who has been knocked onto his ass, his eyes returned to a shocking and vibrant blue, snorts. “Stupid is what I do,” he replies. He’s flicking his hand sharply, the way normal people flick the flint of a Zippo lighter. He’s frowning, uncomfortable without his flames.

“That’s why you can’t touch me,” Jared says, aware that he’s mostly naked and hurting in interesting places, that some of his come has landed on the dark blue of Misha’s jeans.

Misha rolls his eyes. “Can’t? Nuh-uh. _Did_.” A small flame finally flickers into life at the tip of one of his fingers, and his face splits into a satisfied grin. He looks up at Jared, all smug satisfaction and golden sparks lighting up the blue of his irises. “Now,” he says. “When are you going to figure out a way to return the favour?”

“As soon as my leg heals, you freak.”

Misha leans forwards to peer at the blistering flesh of Jared’s thigh, and then slowly rolls his eyes up until he and Jared are staring at each other. Then, carefully and deliberately, be blows a gentle gust of hot air over the burn, making Jared shudder and groan. He pulls away with his grin firmly back in place. Wild and confident and dangerous, and Jared thinks that he would kill for a chance to lay hands on him. “Don’t think it’ll stay healed for long.”

Jared licks his lips. “Yeah, okay. I think I can live with that.”


End file.
